


The Crystalline Eyes of a Thief

by Voidcoffee



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Glasses, Nothing big, Other, just a cute little thing I decided to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 01:12:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12760068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidcoffee/pseuds/Voidcoffee
Summary: Juno really needs glasses, because he can't see things close to him, but boy is he too stubborn to get them. Luckily, a certain glasses-wearing thief offers him a look into the world of details.





	The Crystalline Eyes of a Thief

I’ve always had...issues with my sight. Nothing major, it’s just that I can’t really see anything close to me. It’s basically the reason why I prefer my gun over my fists. Hard to hit a target you can’t actually see. Maybe it’s what made me such a good shot. Who knows really. Hell, I sure don’t.

I had glasses when I was little. Like, when I was four or something. They lasted a long time, but one day, when Ben and I were playing...well fighting, he punched me in the face and they broke. My mother, Sarah Steel, she never bought me a new pair after that. Said she couldn’t afford them, that they were too expensive. Couldn’t or wouldn’t, I didn’t really care either way. Yeah sure, it took some adjusting, but it’s not like I struggled that badly. Never thought of getting them as an adult, to be honest. I’d just gotten so used to it. Not being able to read without holding the text far away from me seemed normal. 

And, well, I guess I’m just a bit stubborn too.

Nureyev though. God, he wore his glasses as if they were a part of him. In a sense, they were too.  
“Detective darling, I like to see the face of the person I’m up against,” he told me after a few drinks back at my place. “But, most importantly, I want to see yours.” He moved his hands across my face, finally planting his thumbs underneath my broken eyes. He smiled as he described every scar, every birthmark, every line in my face as if I was the most beautiful painting on this side of the galaxy. It was...poetic, really.

“And what do you see in my face, Juno?” he asked. I panicked. I could see colours, vague impressions of shapes. To me, his face looked like an abstract watercolor painting. No details. The black of his hair, the brown of his eyes, the blue of his painted lips. Nothing else.  
“Well, Juno, I know it’s hard to describe this work of art, but do try,” he teased, all tender lips and white teeth and lovesick smiles. I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He noticed.

He took off his glasses, this intricate part of him, and handed them to me. To me, disaster PI Juno Steel. I just held them, unsure of what to do. They felt heavy. Not so much physically as emotionally. Like a dying man’s last wish or a failed wedding. He took my hands and guided them to my face and as he put his glasses on me, he whispered: “Try this, dear.”

Lines, curves, edges, shapes came into existence before me. The birth of the universe. The big bang. It was like looking at a slide under a microscope. I saw things I’d never seen before. Things I’d felt, but were otherwise nonexistent. It was as if I’d stepped into another world. And his face. God, every single line was like a mighty river, every birthmark a towering mountaintop. It was like a planet of incredible beauty spawned into existence right in front of my very eyes. A planet of brilliant colors and perfect shapes. Of love and hate and sadness and fear and joy. Of endless possibilities and nonexistent limits. I’d never seen anything more stunning, more worthy of awe in my life. 

As if in a trance, I stood up and looked around my apartment. Feeling like a toddler as my feet and legs struggled to keep me upright on my journey of exploration in this strange, new world. Most of it seemed the same, just more detailed, but for the first time ever, I noticed these little notes and trinkets lying around the place. I picked one of them up, the rose-red paper feeling rough on my sore fingers, and opened it. Was that...yes, Rita’s handwriting. No doubt about it. Geez, she...she really cares about me. Why me? Why? I never knew she cared. I mean, I did, but this… this was different. This was more than making coffee or taking care of me during my depressive episodes. This was so much more.

I counted them. 17. 17 notes and trinkets. She must’ve left one every time she came over when I wasn’t feeling so great. I thought it was suspicious she always brought another, smaller bag with her. Rita, I...Thank you, I guess. Look, this ain’t my thing, alright. Platonic love is weird. Weirder than romantic love. I was just making a mental note to thank her for this when Nureyev called out to me.

“And, detective? The world isn’t such a bad place when you really look at it, no? Now, I do believe you still haven’t answered my question.”  
I walked back over and sat next to him on the couch. Very close to him. I told him, told him everything I saw. But I didn’t stop at his face. I talked about the details in the fabric of his shirt, the intricate patterns of his corset, the design of his trousers. I talked about his hands, his fingers, his neck, his legs, his everything. And when I was finished describing every aspect of him, I described my feelings for him. But not detailed, not fancy. I described it with the same phrase every single lovesick fool in history had used before me.

“I love you.”


End file.
